Ancient, Ancient

by Kiini Ibura Salaam

  K-USH: The Legend of the Last Wero

  The seekers wait, hungrily, as K-Ush rises and hovers close to the ceiling of the dogra. Her large eye is closed, but she can feel them—the seekers—crouched on the dirt floor below. They send up shards of prayer, puncturing K-Ush’s trance. As their needs—hesitant, but insistent—hit her, a skull-splitting pain flashes across her forehead. Her large skeletal hands twitch. She hears the tiny, timid voice of a seeker plead for help. She’d like to drift down to the floor, wrap her bony fingers around the seeker’s neck, and squeeze.

  “What is at the core of you?” K-Ush booms in a deep voice that is not her own.

  As the seeker replies, K-Ush rotates her head back and forth. Light glints off the metal band curved around her shaved head. Her lips part, sharing the prophecy the seeker is begging to hear. A loud, raspy breath explodes in her ear; K-Ush’s eye flutters. She almost opens her eye and breaks her trance, but she clenches her fists and fights to hold on. She must not be distracted by Sheya’s dying breaths.

  As K-Ush continues to prophesy, the sound of Sheya’s breathing disappears. She has even ceased to feel the seekers’ miserable expectant need. An unfamiliar dizziness blooms in her chest. Her eye flies open. She is no longer in the dogra. All around her, K-Ush feels the condensation of a gathering storm, but she sees nothing. She knows she should focus on the storm—obtain facts, ascertain dimensions, compile a projected duration—but she pushes it away. Sheya will complain. “It is a wero’s job to protect the village,” she will lecture, but K-Ush doesn’t care. Does not want to gather useful information for the survival of the seekers. Let them die, she thinks. Let them all die, so Wa-Sheya can finally be at rest.

  The air around K-Ush’s body starts to undulate. A warm wetness touches her at the base of her neck. She turns to look behind her and sees a flesh-colored body zip away. In the distance she sees another form, another wero it seems. The wero beckons, motioning for K-Ush to join her. K-Ush takes a step forward toward the wero, but the wetness returns and coaxes K-Ush to be still. It brushes from the nape of her neck down her spine.

  “K-Ush! K-Ush!”

  K-Ush hears her name being called faintly, as if from a distance. She ignores the call. Instead, she pushes herself against the wet warmth. She turns her head quickly, and again she sees the flesh-colored body zip away. This time she can discern that it is a tall, four-legged creature. She faces forward, now with a smile tugging at her lips. As she stares ahead, eye focused on the wero in the distance, the wet warmth picks up at the base of K-Ush’s spine. She turns her head slowly, keeping her body still. The flesh-colored creature stands behind her, its gaunt face lowered to her waist. Its teeth are bared as a long, green tongue hangs out of its mouth and strokes the back of K-Ush’s legs.

  “K-Ush!”

  K-Ush hears her name being called again. This time she leans away from the creature and allows herself to be pulled back to the dogra. When she opens her eye, Sheya is hovering before her.

  “You need ho-resh-li,” Sheya says. Sheya lifts a hand, and four seekers rise to the ceiling. They pull K-Ush into a prone position and, without looking directly at her, hoist her onto their shoulders. Just as Sheya waves her hand to lower K-Ush and the seekers to the ground, K-Ush whispers, “Wa-Sheya, I saw another wero.”

  Sheya dips down to K-Ush with a speed K-Ush did not know the old wero still possessed. Sheya hovers horizontally over K-Ush’s body.

  “What did you say?” Sheya demands.

  “I said I saw another wero.”

  “You are the last wero,” Sheya replies.

  “And a pale creature licked me, Wa-Sheya. It was wonderful…”

  Sheya snaps her fingers, and the seekers thud to the ground. K-Ush pulls herself into a vertical hover, leaning away from Sheya.

  “You saw the ki-ra-he?” croaks Sheya.

  “Ki-ra-he?!?” K-Ush asks, trying to keep panic from creeping into her voice. “No, n-n-n-o-o-o, Wa-Sheya.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  K-Ush’s lips start to tremble.

  “Speak out,” Sheya roars. “Do not behave as if you have never given prophecy…speak!”

  “Something licked me. It wasn’t bad. It felt good.”

  Sheya grasps one of K-Ush’s shoulders and drags her back up to the ceiling of the dogra. She seems not to notice that their heads bump against the wet ceiling.

  “You were not yet born, so you do not know what blasphemy you speak,” Sheya says, her face close to K-Ush’s.

  “But Wa-Sheya…”

  Sheya lifts her chin and fixes a steely glare on K-Ush’s face. K-Ush silences herself and lowers her head respectfully.

  “You know this story by heart child,” Sheya says, her voice wavering, this time with emotion, not old age. “You know the ki-ra-he decimated our villages twelve times over before we formed any protection, and you insist on mocking the dead?”

  K-Ush feels her energy seeping out of her. Her head rolls to the side, and she dips, losing the strength to hover. Sheya grabs K-Ush before she falls and pulls her back up.

  “Never K-Ush, never are you to believe that a ki-ra-he means the village no harm,” she growls.

  “Wasn’t a monster,” K-Ush murmurs. She is barely able to keep her eye open. “I know it wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “It can’t hurt you, K-Ush. You are a wero.”

  “Then why are you so angry with me?”

  Sheya sighs, betraying the length of her life and the depth of her exhaustion.

  “K-Ush, you have reached the final stage of prophecy.”

  K-Ush’s eye flies open. The jolt from Sheya’s words momentarily energizes her.

  “How, Wa-Sheya, by seeing a ki-ra-he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you ever wondered how I know when to call a ceremony?”

  K-Ush nods.

  “I know the warmth you speak of. It is delicious, yes, but it is dangerous. The tongue of the ki-ra-he is its most seductive feature. As it licks, you submit. You did not want to return, did you?”

  K-Ush shook her head silently. Wa-Sheya waved a cautionary finger in K-Ush’s face.

  “Never forget, little wero, while you allow the ki-ra-he to visit you in trance, it comes to the village and devours the seekers.”

  K-Ush shudders.

  “It appears when it wants to feed?”

  “It appears to the wero when it wants to feed. When the ki-ra-he appears, you must leave your trance immediately.”

  “But the ki-ra-he was playful. It was like a game.”

  “The ki-ra-he does not play. You are too young to remember the time of blood. The ki-ra-he came at will. They left behind bloody bodies with gouged out hearts, throats, and guts. Each time they came to feed, they left one shro untouched. That was the shro of the three-armed female child.”

  “The first wero,” K-Ush mumbles dutifully.

  Wa-Sheya nods. “Twelve times the ki-ra-he came before the people of the village realized the ki-ra-he would not enter a shro that contained a three-armed child. They began to build huge shros where everyone would sleep under the protection of the three-armed girl-children.”

  “I know the story, Wa-Sheya.”

  “You know the mythology, K-Ush, but you do not know the tragedy. You’ve never experienced it.”

  “Then why did I become a wero? How am I supposed to protect anybody?”

  Again a sigh rustles between the young wero and her mentor. Sheya’s words unravel reluctantly, and K-Ush leans forward to hear them.

  “I am leaving soon, K-Ush.”

  K-Ush hears Sheya’s words, but she cannot make sense of their meaning.

  “The ki-ra-he is testing your strength. It knows as long as I am on watch, I will not surrender to its tongue. But you…you are young. You may risk staying longer with the pleasure.”

  “No, Wa-Sheya!”

  “You are the village’s protection, K-Ush, and the ki-ra-he may gain entry b
efore you rouse yourself from trance.”

  Sheya grunts and rolls her head back. “I feel the storm coming, K-Ush. I fear it will be too great for us. You have seen the storm?”

  “I felt it Wa-Sheya. I promise to trance on it after the prophecy, but…”

  “You are a wero, you must prophesy not only for the seekers, but also for the village.”

  A muffled sound—Is it feet stumbling? Is it a stifled yell? Is it a scuffle?—lifts up from the floor of the dogra and interrupts the weros’ conversation. Sheya swoops down to investigate. K-Ush follows. Near the entrance to the dogra is a swirl of activity. A few cloaked seekers seem to have rushed in, others seem to be pushing near the entrance. After motioning for K-Ush to remain inside the dogra, Sheya plows through the chaos. K-Ush can hear Sheya arguing softly with someone, then silence.

  “What has happened?” K-Ush asks when Sheya drifts back into the dogra.

  “Nothing that concerns you. You need ho-resh-li,” Sheya says and pushes K-Ush toward the hola.

  “But Wa-Sheya!” K-Ush whispers, looking into Sheya’s ancient eyes for confirmation. “If what you say is true…” K-Ush pauses “the prophecy doesn’t stop the ki-ra-he.”

  Sheya looks around frantically. They are surrounded by seekers.

  “You must not speak of these things, K-Ush.” Sheya looks furious, but her voice remains level. “All that matters is that the seekers believe the prophecy saves them, and not even a wero can stop a le-ish from revolving once it is set into motion.”

  “But if all we have to do is be gathered in the same hola…”

  “The le-ish has been set K-Ush, you cannot change it. Now go take ho-resh-li.”

  “I don’t want to be a wero anymore.”

  “It is not a choice,” Wa-Sheya says through gritted teeth. “You will take ho-resh-li now.”

  “But if all we have to do is be gathered in the same hola…”

  “Go,” Sheya growls.

  K-Ush lifts her hands and floats toward the hola.

  At the entrance to the hola, K-Ush squats to dip her fingers into the large skik bowl and bless herself with sacred water. The heat of the hola rolls over her body. Without rising, she surveys the room. It is empty, as it should be. Besides K-Ush, the only objects present are the curved holy blade and the virgin. One glance at the virgin’s young skin and K-Ush returns to the first times she took ho-resh-li. Then Sheya had to enter the hola with her. Sheya would hold K-Ush down and force her to take the virgin. Patiently, she taught K-Ush to ignore his terror and absorb his wild galloping adrenaline. K-Ush shakes her head as if to clear it of the memories. She crawls to the center of the hola sickened by one truth: Wa-Sheya no longer has to force her to take ho-resh-li. It is now a need: K-Ush must partake or die.

  Still squatting, K-Ush pulls the tie fastening her robe, and the thin cloth falls from her shoulders and rests bunched around her waist. The boy does not look. Everyone knows what a wero’s body is like. Flat chested, narrow hipped, hard and muscular. No fat, no curves, all lines and angles. K-Ush unfurls her index finger and slides the curved blade toward the virgin. It is her brand of kindness. Alive or dead it makes no difference to her. The virgin rises to his knees and pushes the knife to the side.

  “You will do it the old way?” K-Ush asks.

  “I will, and I would like permission to speak.”

  “I do not grant it. I cannot hear another praise song.”

  “I did not say I wanted to sing, I asked for permission to speak.”

  K-Ush’s head snaps up at the willfulness in the boy’s voice. She looks at his face for the first time. He looks like any other virgin who gives himself for his village, yet there is something determined in the set of his jaw.

  “Who taught you to speak to a wero in that fashion?” K-Ush asks.

  “A wero.”

  Incredulity lurches in K-Ush’s chest.

  “No wero that I have ever known. Certainly not Wa-Sheya.”

  “No.”

  “And certainly not I.”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “The last wero.”

  “I am the last wero.”

  “There is another.”

  K-Ush’s cheeks darken with rage.

  “You tell lies. You may not speak.”

  She grabs the virgin by the back of the neck and pulls him against her body. She wraps two of her arms around his waist and licks her lips. She pushes her moist mouth against a thick muscle cord in his neck. Her lips draw back and she attaches her teeth to his skin. The boy twitches in discomfort and involuntarily pulls away. K-Ush tightens her grip on him and deepens her tasting. The boy shudders beneath her mouth. His body stiffens, then bucks in surrender. She sucks harder, pinching his flesh between her teeth. The acid taste of blood seeps into her mouth. She draws away, abruptly releasing the boy. She falls back against the air and floats horizontally. With two hands, she pushes her robe past her waist. She kicks her monstrous feet, and the cloth falls in a thin puddle beneath her hovering body.

  K-Ush looks at the boy. He rises up on his knees and begins to kiss her body reverently. The virgin’s lips roam over every inch of K-Ush from her bony ankles to her violently protruding ribs. His mouth is different from the others K-Ush has taken in the past. His mouth is not dry and fearful, instead it pushes heat into K-Ush’s skin.

  “You are different,” K-Ush says.

  “I am,” the boy replies. “Again, I ask for permission to speak.”

  “Were I to give you permission, what would you say? Would you beg for your life?”

  “No. I would show you this,” the boy says holding up his arm. There a circular hole dents the smooth skin of his inner arm. “And this,” he says, opening his legs so that K-Ush can see the same hole in one of his thighs.

  K-Ush laughs. “You are begging for your life.”

  “No. I was sent with a message.”

  K-Ush rolls forward until she is lying—still hovering—on her side.

  “What is it, young virgin? You may speak. What is it you wish to say?”

  “In my village…”

  “This is not your village?” K-Ush interrupts.

  “No,” the boy says with a smile.

  K-Ush licks her lips and adjusts her hips. “I am weary, you must speak quickly.”

  “You need the ho-resh-li,” the boy says.

  K-Ush says nothing. A brief silence unwinds between them. Finally the boy speaks.

  “In my village I have given ho-resh-li twice. Once here,” he says pointing to his arm. “And once there,” he says pointing to his leg. “In my village, there are no such things as seekers. We know the truth of the ki-ra-he, and we know the lie of prophecy. In my village the wero live among us.”

  “The walls of this hola have heard many stories. But none quite so fantastical as this one.”

  K-Ush extends two long arms and draws the boy into the air over her body. She continues to hover as she clasps the boy under his chin and drags his head up to her eye level. She removes the metal band from her head and clasps it in her hand.

  “M-M-M-May I say one more thing?”

  K-Ush exhales a frustrated breath. “Still trying to delay your death?” She opens her thighs and guides the boy to enter her.

  “I must… deliver… my message,” the boy says between thrusts.

  “Deliver your message, young one. And deliver it fast,” K-Ush says anticipating the sweet daze of ho-resh-li entering her body.

  “The last wero invites you to visit her village. We know you are unhappy here. We want to offer you a different life, away from Wa-Sheya’s lies…”

  K-Ush rams the metal band into his spine. Lightening quick, the band stretches, stakes him through his back, and exits through his stomach. The band seeks K-Ush’s navel. When it connects, an electric current snakes out of her body into the virgin’s, spurring all his internal organs into arrest. His breathing halts, his blood suspends circulation, and his brain quits. K-Ush drains all
his energy, devouring it, not with joy, but with revulsion. His body—heavy with death—pushes K-Ush closer to the ground. She allows herself to fall back against the floor. Pure energy thrums through her veins. Her tongue swells, the taste of blood fills her mouth. She cannot free herself of the virgin. The band will not contract until all his energy is depleted. Powerless to move, K-Ush lets out a roar that silences all sound echoing in the dogra and instantly calls Sheya back from sleep.

  As Sheya ushers K-Ush out of the hola, she again whispers something about the storm.

  “No one ever died from a little water,” K-Ush snaps.

  “I fear this one will be…”

  But K-Ush does not hear the rest of her mentor’s words. She is rushing to lose herself in trance before the boy’s joints stick and his muscles grow cold. She does not want to think of the world he offered her. Her eye rolls back in its socket, her lips tremble, and prophecy flows from her like tears.

  K-Ush offers prophecy hour after magnificent hour with a certainty that is terrifying. When the pain returns, K-Ush wonders if the ki-ra-he can bring pain as well as pleasure to her body. She wonders if this is the moment she should resist. The searing hurt obliterates any further thought. She does not call out to Sheya. Instead she retreats deeper into her trance. Her channeling voice continues booming out prophecy, but the aching throb does not let her go.

  When K-Ush finally yields to the pain, a warm wetness embraces her cheek. She opens her eye with a sigh. Once more, she has left the dogra. The ki-ra-he is with her, gently licking the side of her face. She feels no fear; she feels relief. Some small part of her knows she is sacrificing something huge, but in this moment she does not remember the seekers, she cannot hold the village in her mind. She is a wero full of exhaustion, need, and want. Her arms drop defenseless to her sides. The licking expands from her cheek to cover her entire face. Then a low sigh rumbles in her chest. The wet warmth nestles against her throat. Every inch of her body feels caressed. For a few delicious seconds, there is nothing. No sound, no guilt, and no pain. She exhales from deep down in her gut, from a place in her body that has never felt release. She cries out like a child, stretches, then surrenders, quietly wishing to die this way.